thought so terrified him that even in a remote cave he would be seized with a desire to rush out into the air, and when he fancied himself alone his face would stream with cold sweat, in thinking of his buried past. His whole life seemed to be filled with nothing but innumerable acts of injustice and wrong done against his teachers, his friends, his parents, and his near kinsmen.
The path along which we have come to our present position, whatever it may be, is possibly exactly the same road which this bad man had trodden: and the starting-point of his journey was the place which we call our home, our true native place. That home[1] was a poor place, and we did not like it. So we left it, and now we are well advanced on our journey to a better place. We have, of course, many fellow-travellers. Some of them are already on the point of entering into the City of Flowers
- ↑ i.e. the place to which Wordsworth more happily alludes when he says that "trailing clouds of glory do we come from God, Who is our home."
